


On Primrose Hill

by freyjawriter24



Series: Writing prompts and challenges [13]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Dong Zhi, I Love You, M/M, Post-Almost Apocalypse (Good Omens), Saturnalia, Singing, Stargazing, Winter Solstice, being awake when the world is asleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-29
Updated: 2021-01-29
Packaged: 2021-03-15 21:27:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29071032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/freyjawriter24/pseuds/freyjawriter24
Summary: Few humans had come to visit for the sunset today, but there were some around, all wrapped in thick coats or sporting Christmas jumpers. That wasn't the occasion Aziraphale and Crowley were here to celebrate, though. Traditions like that were ephemeral things, passing into and out of existence. Only the Earth and its seasons were a constant.Thatwas why they were here. No matter what went on from year to year, there was a regularity in the way Creation worked. The stars in the sky, the phases of the moon, the spinning of the planet. And that last made for an annual meeting point, a steadfast moment amidst the chaos of humanity.***Our favourite immortal beings celebrate the longest night of the year together.Fic written as a pinch-hit forcupidsbowfor the GO Events server's Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Writing prompts and challenges [13]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1805341
Comments: 12
Kudos: 25
Collections: Good Snowmens Winter Gift Exchange





	On Primrose Hill

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cupidsbow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cupidsbow/gifts).



> The title is from a line attributed to William Blake, a quotation which is carved into stone on the summit of Primrose Hill in London: "I have conversed with the spiritual sun. I saw him on Primrose Hill".
> 
> Primrose Hill sits a little way north of Mayfair, on the other side of Regent's Park. From there, you have a beautiful view of the landmarks of London, which are [lit up at night](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Primrose_Hill#/media/File:View_from_Primrose_Hill_at_night.jpg).
> 
> Written using the prompt: 'How do immortal beings celebrate the longest night of the year?' I hope this lives up to your excellent prompt, cupidsbow!

“It’s on the 22nd this year, angel,” Crowley said gently. “Just after 4am.”

He felt rather than heard Aziraphale’s intake of breath at the other end of the phone line.

“Oh.”

“Yeah.”

They hadn’t expected this. The world was supposed to be gone by now, after all. They’d been _hoping_ it would survive, hoping that Plans could be changed and the Apocalypse averted, but they’d never dared actually _rely_ on that outcome. They’d never looked past August.

And now here they were, facing head-on a winter which they never thought would come. It was, in a word, stunning.

“Well, then,” Aziraphale said, pulling himself together. “Same plan as usual, yes?”

“Course, angel. I’ll pick you up on the Saturday. Sunset’s at ten to four.”

“I’ll expect you for lunch, then.”

“Sure. Where would you like?”

Aziraphale hummed a little, thinking. “Somewhere new, I expect. I’ll have a look around, see if I can book us a table nearby.”

“Sounds good.” Crowley let the tone of his voice suggest that the conversation was coming to a close, but Aziraphale stopped him before he hung up.

“Crowley?”

“Yeah?”

A deep breath echoed down the connection. “Thank you.”

Crowley smiled, small and soft and warm, even though he knew Aziraphale couldn’t see it. “Don’t mention it,” he said, and he let the smile flood into his voice, let his angel hear the quiet joy there.

They were used to double meanings, these two. And this time his tone said ‘no, thank _you_ , angel’. Because sometimes experiences are meant to be shared. And so is hope, and relief, and happiness.

* * *

That was months ahead of time. There were other celebrations to get through first: Halloween, which they spent with the Them in Tadfield; Bonfire Night, which they reconnected with Warlock for; Thanksgiving, which Anathema invited them over to celebrate. An endless succession of important dates and key events, of tradition and togetherness and laughter.

But eventually, amidst the preparations for yet another all-consuming holiday, the time came.

Crowley pulled up in front of the bookshop, as he so often did, and sauntered in, leaning casually against a shelf. “Ready, angel?”

“Of course, dearest.” Aziraphale put down the book he’d been reading (one of Adam’s recent additions), took the offered elbow, and the two of them walked together to the car.

Lunch, at Aziraphale’s discretion, was at a local Indian restaurant this year. The extensive list of options for both side dishes and mains, all of which complimented each other perfectly and was at no risk of becoming repetitive, was an excellent choice for their banquet reminiscent of Saturnalia. [1]

They ate papadums and chicken tikka for starters, with samosas and sheek kebab, then moved onto rezala, biryani, balti, and vindaloo. They ordered plates of onion bhajis, pilau rice, and peshwari naan, bowls of saag aloo, tarka daal, and matar paneer. The staff didn’t bat an eyelid at the extravagance, nor the sheer ludicrousness of the amount of food the pair put away. It was all in the spirit of the occasion, after all, and didn’t everyone recognise a good party when they saw one?

Afterwards, they left the Bentley on some double yellows down Albert Terrace and entered the park past Joseph Payne’s fountain. It was only a few minutes’ walk up the hill, but they savoured it, wandering slowly along the paths and continuing their lunchtime conversation in good humour.

When they reached the summit, though, they fell silent in reverence of the occasion. A night they thought they’d never get.

Few humans had come to visit for the sunset today, but there were some around, mostly in pairs, all wrapped in thick coats or sporting Christmas jumpers. That wasn’t the occasion which they were here to celebrate, though. Traditions like that – public holidays, ancient customs – were ephemeral things, passing into and out of existence with the changing of fashions, the movement of eras. Only the Earth and its seasons were a constant.

 _That_ was why they were here. No matter what went on from year to year, there was a regularity in the way Creation worked. The stars in the sky, the phases of the moon, the spinning of the planet. And that last made for an annual meeting point, a steadfast moment amidst the chaos of humanity.

Crowley glanced down at his watch – a watch he hadn’t updated, for the first time in a long time, for over six months. It was the watch he’d timed the Antichrist’s birthday on, the clock that had ticked down the moments until Armageddon – and then had carried on ticking, in the seconds and minutes and hours afterwards, in the days and weeks and months it had been since the world was due to end.

They were living on extra time now – time given by the hope of a child. A monumental gift.

He smiled at the thought. “One minute, angel.”

Aziraphale hummed in acknowledgement, and closed his eyes to inhale the cool, wintry air.

They stood there side by side, as they had done so often before. Except this time, as the two celestial beings looked out over their city, the last rays of daylight glimmering off the distant edifices of humanity, two hands came together.

Crowley’s long, skinny fingers slid easily between Aziraphale’s soft, manicured ones. Their palms fit perfectly against one another, as though this was where they were always meant to be. Which, to be fair, wasn’t far off the truth.

Aziraphale squeezed gently, and Crowley squeezed back.

The sunset was understated but beautiful. _Every_ movement of the heavens [2] was gorgeous in Crowley’s eyes, but there was something special about it at the solstices and equinoxes. Those were turning points, milestones on the map of time, and the sky always seemed to know it.

“I have conversed with the spiritual sun,” Aziraphale recited, as he did every year. “I saw him on Primrose Hill.” [3]

“And you’ll see him again tomorrow,” Crowley smiled.

Aziraphale looked at him. “I’ll see him all through the night, my dear. It’s the real sun that’s disappeared from view, not my spiritual one.”

Oh. _Oh_. Well then, that... that rather changed the meaning, didn’t it?

“I’ve always meant it like that,” Aziraphale murmured, giving Crowley’s hand another squeeze.

It wasn’t a particularly demonic move to tear up at such a beautiful confession, but considering Crowley probably wasn’t exactly a demon anymore, he decided to let himself off. His angel offered him a shoulder, and he accepted.

The two stood there for a while; entwined together in emotion, lit by the dying light of a star disappearing for as long as it ever would, on the summit of a hill in _their_ city, on _their_ planet – a planet which should no longer exist, which they had helped save – and they were finally free to be wholly themselves.

On balance, Crowley figured, the crying was probably fair enough.

* * *

Eventually they settled on the grass just in front of the curved stone, leaning against Blake’s words and enjoying the feeling of the city rushing on around them. They snuggled against one another and passed a black thermos [4] back and forth, sipping at the perfectly-warmed hot toddy inside.

“Mmm,” Aziraphale sighed appreciatively.

“Good?”

“Perfect, darling. Reminds me of that time in... oh, when was it? 1786?”

“Sounds about right. Not long before you got yourself locked up in the Bastille, if I remember correctly.”

“About a decade, if that. And shush, you know I was only trying to see you.”

Crowley arched one eyebrow. “No, you were there for the crepes. And the brioche, I’m pretty sure.”

“Well, yes,” Aziraphale accepted. “But they’re always so much better when you’re there to share them with.”

“Sap,” Crowley chided fondly, swallowing down another bubble of emotion that temporarily blocked his throat.

“Yes, dear.”

It was so wonderful, being able to just _be_ like this, together. They’d been doing something similar for decades, of course – centuries, now – but it _felt_ different this year. After everything that had happened – after quite literally standing up to Heaven and Hell in defence of their planet – keeping watch over one small city seemed at once so delightfully relaxed and so incredibly poignant.

“This seemed so... futile last year,” Crowley said quietly. “Watching over them all night, knowing that we might not actually be able to protect them if our plan went wrong. And – well, I mean, it _did_ go wrong, but it still turned out alright in the end. But, I mean... I guess it just feels more meaningful this year. Less pointless, more... hopeful.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale exhaled. “It’s nice to know we’ve actually helped protect them _tangibly_ this time.”

“Well, to be fair, I’m not sure we did _that_ much.”

“We were there at the End of the World, Crowley! We helped the Antichrist stop Armageddon!”

“ _You_ nearly shot him.”

“Only because _you_ told me to.”

“Fair point.” Crowley smirked at a sudden thought. “Gotta be the ultimate temptation, really, that. Getting an angel to shoot a small child, all whilst possessing the body of an innocent human.”

“Oh, shush, you.”

They both chuckled good-naturedly. Luckily, it was more of an inside joke now than anything else. Adam had been rather nice about it all, as had Tracy. They both understood what the celestials had been trying to do, and didn’t bear a grudge against them for it. [5]

The hot drink and its alcohol content was warming them both nicely, and conveniently it didn’t seem to be running out any time soon. It gave a soft glow to the whole scene, a relaxing blurriness around the edges that made the world feel like it was wrapped in a fuzzy tartan blanket.

Crowley shivered, and Aziraphale pulled a blanket exactly matching that description out of the little picnic basket they’d brought with them. He wrapped it around them both, settling it over their shoulders and tucking it in at the front, over their still-clasped hands. 

The stars were starting to come out now, and Aziraphale snuggled closer to Crowley.

“Tell me about yours,” he whispered.

It was a detail the demon had dropped into conversation once long ago, more by accident than anything. They were drunk, and he was bouncing wildly between thoughts, and as soon as he’d realised what he’d said, he’d sobered up and left. The angel hadn’t asked about them since – it was something far too personal for mere _acquaintances_ to share – but now all of that was out of the way. Now, Aziraphale dared ask. Now, Crowley dared reply.

“That one,” he pointed with his free hand. “One of my first. Worked on that with a few of the others, figuring out how to put everything together. There was a fair bit of trial-and-error at first. Got there eventually, though. Then we were assigned to a nebula... That one there, can you see it? Took ages, that did, getting everything to balance together to keep it ticking over for millennia to come...”

The sky was clearer than it should have been, the clouds having made themselves scarce in deference to the celestial beings below them. [6] And although Pollution’s influence meant that to human eyes there were only a scattering of far-off lights visible in the firmament, celestial eyes could look further. The entire Milky Way was laid out before them, an incredible mass of light and colour painted right across the sky. It was, in the Biblical sense, awesome.

Crowley talked for hours, and Aziraphale let him, absorbing it all in quiet fascination. He knew so much about every star and planet and galaxy in the sky – and not just what he’d learned in Heaven, but what the humans had found out, too. He knew the origin of every nebula, the distance from Earth of every rocky surface in a Goldilocks Zone, the story behind every constellation. He knew it all, because he loved knowledge, and because he appreciated humanity and all the myriad ways they made sense of Creation.

Aziraphale sipped at the thermos and revelled in the moment. There were such depths to Crowley that he’d forced himself to ignore for so long. Such curiosity, such creativity, such wonder. And now that he let himself listen rather than push away... Aziraphale was awestruck by it.

Blasphemy though it was, he didn’t think he could ever love anyone or anything more than he loved Crowley.

Heaven’s most rebellious un-Fallen angel had, at some point, abandoned looking at the sky altogether in favour of watching Crowley’s face. It danced from one topic to another, animated by excitement and lit up in delight, practically radiant in the darkness. Crowley didn’t seem to notice Aziraphale staring.

The moon rose sometime after 3am, quieting the flow of knowledge, its waning crescent lighting the grass around them in a soft glow. It wasn’t quite cold enough for frost, but the way the light fell meant the field still looked blanketed in it.

Crowley shivered involuntarily and leaned in closer to Aziraphale, who abandoned the thermos and shifted to wrap both arms around him. The gentle pulse of a miracle warmed them both through instantly, but neither pulled away. They stayed like that for an hour or so, waiting for the solstice.

* * *

“Almost time,” Crowley said, glancing again at his watch.

Aziraphale nodded. “Which would you like this year, my dear? ‘Here we come’? ‘Gloucestershire’?”

“Ohh, ‘Apple Tree’, I should think.”

He received a half-hearted elbow to the ribs for that joke, but Aziraphale agreed to it anyway.

Crowley reached over to the picnic basket and pulled out two large bottles of cider.

“Mulled?”

“Oh, yes please.”

In an instant the bottles’ contents lost their shop-bought fizzy sweetness, becoming hot and spiced instead. Aziraphale pried the lids off both, then took one.

“Ten seconds,” Crowley said. He took a deep breath, looked out over London, and then let his gaze float higher, into the darkest, longest night of the year. The universe looked back, in all its still-there glory.

“Three. Two. One.”

“Happy Solstice, my dear.”

Aziraphale held up his bottle of mulled cider and Crowley clinked his own against it.

“Cheers, angel.”

They both drank, then gave each other knowing smiles, and commenced another of their long-held winter traditions: they began to sing. [8]

“Hurray, hurray, in our good town  
The bread is white, and the liquor brown.  
So here my old fellow I drink to thee,  
and the long life of every other tree.”

The song was a good one, even without the personal meaning Aziraphale and Crowley could take from it. It was also only a few centuries old, if that – not all that long in the span of a celestial’s life.

The next was older by several centuries more, though the initial concept was the same.

“Wassail, wassail all over the town  
Our toast it is white and our ale it is brown,  
We bring a bowl made of the white maple tree,  
and with the wassailing bowl, we’ll drink to thee!”

There was history in these words, these tunes, these songs passed down over generations. How many people had shared in this? How rich was this past that they had lived through, which they had treasured the memory of, which they brought to life again in song?

Humanity was incredible in its creativity, but also in its preservation. Its stories shared across thousands of years, kept near-identical or spiralling off into endless iterations. Its music played and repeated and altered and remixed, all mirrors and echoes, and yet still something new.

They chose another:

“Here we come a-wassailing  
among the leaves so green.  
Here we come a-wand’ring  
so fair to be seen.  
Love and joy come to you,  
and to all your wassail, too,  
may the gods bless you, and send you  
a Happy New Year,  
the gods send you a Happy New Year.”

They kept at it for hours. They knew so many songs, was the thing. In a hundred languages, a thousand even – some no longer spoken, some no longer written, some entirely lost to time. But these two could remember them, even after the world forgot.

So many songs. So many snippets of humanity. So many memories.

Eventually they stopped, dissolving into laughter at an old joke. They downed the rest of their still-warm cider, and sat for a moment under the slowly-lightening sky.

“Makes you hungry, all that singing,” Crowley said invitingly. He extricated himself from the blanket and reached again for their picnic basket. “Tangyuan, angel?”

Aziraphale’s eyes widened. “Ooh, yes please!”

The tupperware was the fancy kind, more akin to a bowl with a lid than your typical generic plastic pot, and the outside was (of course) printed in Aziraphale’s own tartan. Inside were several perfectly-round balls of glutinous rice flour, each tinted a different vibrant colour of the rainbow, all floating in a sweet-smelling soup that was – miraculously – steaming in the cold air.

Crowley passed the bowl and a large spoon to Aziraphale, who immediately tucked in. “Mmm! Delicious, my dear.”

“Thought you’d like that,” Crowley smirked. “Leaving any for me?”

“Of course. All in the spirit of unity and sharing. Do you want half the bowl, or...?”

Aziraphale was holding out the spoon, a bright red ball balanced temptingly on the end. Crowley had been about to wave his angel off – _they’re all yours, all of it, everything_ – but at the glint in Aziraphale’s eye, he paused.

Then he leant forward, stuck out his absurd tongue, and scooped the whole thing into his mouth with it.

“Crowley!” came the delighted admonishment. “That’s far too big to – at least _chew_ it!”

“Nah. Can’t. ’M a snake.” He swallowed the dessert and opened his mouth again, like a child proving they’d eaten all their requisite vegetables. Aziraphale couldn’t help but giggle.

“Yes you are, you ridiculous serpent, you.”

There was such depth and warmth in those words. In another time – before the world ended, before he lost his best friend, before both were, impossibly, returned to him – Crowley would have struggled not to melt at those words. He would have kept still, gulped down the words he couldn’t say, focused hard to stop his corporation betraying him. Only the smallest of smiles would be allowed through, or else he would turn away, unable to withstand the blaze of such open affection.

But he didn’t care anymore. He didn’t need to hide. They were safe. They were free. They were together.

He let the blush turn his entire face beetroot red. He let adoration soften the lines around his eyes. He let the words tumble out of his mouth.

“I love you, angel.”

Aziraphale beamed back at him. “I love you too, dearest.”

The joy at such an admission, such a requital, was immeasurable. They both simply stared at each other for a moment, overwhelmed by the unexpected ease of such a thing.

“I love you,” Crowley said again, breathless with it.

Aziraphale’s blue eyes glistened. “I love you.”

I love you. I love you. _I love you._

That they could say it now was unfathomable. To stop would be more ludicrous by far.

So that, in the end, was how the spent the rest of their time before sunrise. Sharing the rest of the tangyuan, gazing into one another’s eyes, and making up for lost time in previously unsaid words.

The sun rose that Sunday on a new world. Not one remade, as it had been that August, but one with new possibilities nonetheless. The pair of celestials on Primrose Hill stood to welcome Earth’s closest star back over the horizon and, hand in hand, bid farewell to the night’s vigil.

They would be back there again next year, as they always were. But for now, they had an awful lot of catching up to do.

And an awful lot of ‘I love you’s to say.

**Author's Note:**

> 1 They had had Italian food a couple of dozen times, since that was as close as London had to offer to the traditional meals served during the Ancient Roman festival, but it wasn't the cuisine that was important, really. It was the act of indulging and sharing that was vital, and the conversation that went with it.
> 
> They'd also given up on gift-giving before it was ever part of the tradition - that was the kind of thing that didn't really work for immortals. Besides, the time spent together was far more valuable. [return to text]
> 
> 2 _The_ heavens, not Heaven. Important distinction. Nothing Heaven did was even _vaguely_ approaching positive in Crowley's eyes.[return to text]
> 
> 3 Aziraphale had been reciting this quotation on this precise spot for far longer than the inscription had been cast in stone in front of them. Every year during their little vigil, ever since he'd first heard it, he had used the line to signal sunset and the start of their night-long watch. [return to text]
> 
> 4 Not tartan, not yet. It was still too soon for that. [return to text]
> 
> 5 Pepper had also helpfully pointed out that the gun probably wouldn't have worked anyway, what with Adam being pretty all-powerful in that moment and everything. The bullets or brick or whatever Shadwell had loaded into that thing probably would have just burst into a cloud of bubbles or something. [return to text]
> 
> 6 Clouds were low in the ranks of skyward things, of course. Who were they to separate like from like? Just wisps of suspended water, floating in the troposphere. No, the clouds could never stand to separate celestial beings from celestial bodies when said celestials wanted to see one another. Especially not a being who had helped create those bodies in the first place. [7] [return to text]
> 
> 7 Crowley, it should be noted, was never unable to find a clear patch of sky whenever he was in the mood to stargaze. The clouds new better than to block him from viewing his ancient creations. [return to text]
> 
> 8 Find the songs referenced here in full at [this link](https://www.learnreligions.com/go-a-wassailing-for-yule-2562973). [return to text]
> 
> **Other notes:**
> 
> I hope you like this, cupidsbow! I'm so glad I got to pinch-hit for you - it feels like the perfect thank you for your wonderful [gift to me](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646571) in this very exchange! Happy Holidays!
> 
> (Also apparently this is my 50th fic posted on AO3! Can I hear a Wahoo for personal milestones?!)


End file.
